


Murder on the Orient Express

by formergirlwonder (orphan_account)



Category: Murder on the Orient Express (novel), Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Am I just the murder person in this fandom now?, Because I'm fine with that..., Bughead AU project, F/M, Juggie is a writer, MURDER ON A TRAIN!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/formergirlwonder
Summary: The year is 1934. Jughead Jones, a successful mystery novelist, is called back to London from Istanbul by his agent. On the train he reunites with an old love...And then a passenger is stabbed to death in a locked compartment, just as the train stops in a snowdrift. The murderer is on the train, and it's up to Jughead and Betty to catch them before they strike again.





	1. The Evidence of the Novelist

**Author's Note:**

> For the Bughead AU Collection Prompt: On a train together and the train is stopped for some reason AU. If you know me, then you understand why my head jumped straight to Murder on the Orient Express! In terms of style, you guys'll notice I'm being more economical here, just like Christie.
> 
> I'm not using Christie's solution, even though I think it's hands down the best solution to a murder mystery EVER. If I did, then you guys would know whodunit, and where would the fun be in that?

The telegram said, “URGENT DEVELOPMENT IN LONDON PROMOTION YOUR PRESENCE NEEDED”. It was signed, "Viper.”

Jughead Jones, aged twenty-seven, scanned the message as it was handed to him by a respectful, white-suited hotel attendant. Then he put it down.

“I need to get to London,” he instructed the attendant. "Can you book me passage?" His voice was abrupt and businesslike, almost to the point of discourtesy.

The attendant nodded swiftly. "Yes, assuredly, sir. The trains are very nearly empty this time of year."

Jughead leaned back in his chair, gripping the pages of his manuscript with one hand so as to prevent them from sliding off his lap onto the floor. “Do it. First-class sleeper car, Calais coach. You got that?"

“But certainly," the attendant agreed, surreptitiously pocketing an offered banknote.

Jughead allowed his eyes to fall shut as the other man left. He could feel a headache coming on. Two weeks into his holiday, and he was being called back already. If he intended to meet the deadline on his next manuscript, he would have to scramble, and then would come the editing and the promotional tours, and now whatever his agent wanted. It must be urgent, if the publishing house was calling him back, but surely if it was urgent, Viper would have sent the details. Damn Viper and his economical telegraphing tendencies, anyway, Jughead thought.

If his headaches got worse, the doctor had said, he might have to stop writing--or at the least, hire a secretary to take his dictation. He couldn't yet bring himself give up the solid, steady crinkling of paper between his fingers, though, and so the secretarial agency brochures that Viper had procured for him remained unread.

It was the squinting that did it, apparently: that and overexertion. Every 30 minutes, the doctor had said. Every 30 minutes, he should take a break and look at something far away. He should wear the glasses that have been prescribed him, and that would help the headaches as well. Regular sleep and plenty of fluids were also vital.

Doubtlessly, the doctors would not be pleased that he had stayed up all the night before, poring tirelessly over a Continental Bradshaw in search of a seemingly-unbreakable false alibi for his latest murderer. The trouble with alibis, he had found, was that they were easy to make, but very hard to break convincingly. If you told the reader that someone was on a crowded train at the time of the crime, then they believed you whole-heartedly, since of _course_ the witnesses on the train would remember _every_ particular of their fellow passengers. In real life, no doubt, all the witnesses would be mistaken, but the reading public of America as a whole insisted that if the murderer was seen on the train when the crime was committed, even if only one person saw them, then no doubt the medical examiner was wrong, the stopped watch had been deliberately faked to throw off the scent, and evil forces were at work.

_“Unimaginable,” said Sir Rufus, adjusting his spectacles. "Quite impossible. His alibi is too rock-solid to be believed. It's as if he knew that there was going to be a murder, and kept track of his movements accordingly!"_

_Bella rearranged her cigarette between her lips, raising an insouciant eyebrow at him. “But there were the letters. The secretary saw the threats, too, you must remember.” As she spoke, she began to twist her dark hair into a braid on the top of her head._

Did sophisticated women braid their hair on top of their heads? Or did they braid it normally and then pin it up after? Jughead scratched out the last sentence and replaced it with a line about Bella pulling out a pocket mirror and pretending to inspect her complexion, while actually checking behind her to see if they had been followed.

Now, of course, Sir Rufus would have to have a spell of detective instinct and realize that there had been multiple murderers, a fact which should have been obvious all along from the fact that the body had been stabbed with both right- and left-handed blows. Even an ambidextrous murderer would tend to favor one hand or the other for maximum stabbing force. Sir Rufus, Jughead reflected bitterly, was an idiot. Then again, Sir Rufus was the sole reason that Jughead could afford to take this holiday, so he probably didn't deserve all this vitriol.

Depositing the manuscript carefully on a side table, Jughead picked up the hotel telephone and rang down to the front desk. "I asked for a first-class berth on the Simplon-Orient, Calais coach? I was wondering when my train leaves."

"Ah, yes. The writer," said the concierge. "There has been a slight difficulty. You see, there is no berth.”

"No berth? I thought the trains were empty this time of year."

The attendant made a clicking sound. "I do not know. Perhaps there is a convention or some such."

"Okay," said Jughead, mentally drafting a telegram to Viper to let him know of the delay. "Hold on a moment. Is there a second-class berth?”

The concierge's rifle through some papers on the other end of the line. "Yes, there is, but it is a woman's berth, and there is already a woman in it."

Jughead grip the receiver tightly. He was on holiday. He should relax a little, stop worrying so much. "Okay. Look, what's the fastest way to London from Istanbul? My agent needs me there post-haste."

"I think I have the solution, sir!” The attendant’s voice was positively jubilant. "The coach to Paris is nearly empty. Why not book passage in that coach, and then find another train in Paris?"

"Done," said Jughead instantly. He’d enjoyed Paris when he'd stopped there the first time, and what Viper didn't know wouldn't hurt him. "What time do I leave?"

"Nine, sir.”

He glanced at the clock. It was 20 minutes after eight. "Best call me a cab, then. I'll be down in five minutes."

It was only a moment’s work to pack his manuscript away and change for the journey. By the time the cab pulled up outside the Tokatlian Hotel, Jughead was standing ready with his single, well-used valise case. It was extremely fortunate, he decided, that he was a light packer: otherwise, he would have missed the train, and been obliged to wait until the next day.

The night air was frigid and unwelcoming, so much so that Jughead could practically feel his tongue freezing in his mouth. He pulled his warm, well-made coat around him and shivered as he made his way across the platform. When was the last time he had felt so cold? Perhaps never: the thermometer outside the hotel had settled in below zero for the entirety of his stay, whereas Riverdale’s temperatures had rarely dropped below twenty degrees.

He was the last passenger on board the train. His watch read five till nine as he stepped into the corridor, scanning the tin plates on the doors to find his compartment, Number Three. Behind him, a porter was struggling with his valise, which, although light, was large.

"Faster, imbeciles!” yelled the conductor from the front of the carriage. "When the Krauts attack, you're going to die like the miserable worms you are! The Wagon-Lit Company isn't paying you to laze around.”

The porter scurried in front of Jughead. "Your compartment is over here, sir."

"You can just set my bag on the floor," Jughead offered awkwardly, rummaging in his wallet for a tip.

"But sir –" the porter began.

"That way I can access it easier,” Jughead explained, extracting a banknote and passing it to the porter.

"What's going on here?" the conductor’s strident voice inquired from the corridor. "I hope the luggage is about to be secured on the rack as per Regulation, Malloy," he observed, stepping into the compartment and scrutinizing its every aspect with discerning, beady eyes. He was a young-ish man, but he held himself with the haughty mien of an experienced ruler. He was the Conductor, and the Orient Express was his domain.

The porter turned his face to the floor and mumbled something about how the gentleman had wanted the luggage on the floor.

The connector directed the full brunt of his formidable gaze towards Jughead. "Passenger Three, are you aware of Regulation 2279 of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits, which states that all items of luggage must be –”

"No," Jughead interrupted. "I didn't know. Sorry."

"Put it up then, Malloy," the conductor ordered.

"Right away, Conductor Doiley," said the porter, hoisting the valise up to the luggage rack and fixing it in place with a system of leather straps that wouldn’t have been out of place in a mad villain’s torture room.

"See to it that you don't go breaking any more Regulations during your time on the Orient Express, Passenger Number Three," the conductor directed, nodding coldly to Jughead as he swept out of the compartment. The porter followed, bobbing, in his wake.

Left alone, Jughead sat on the bed and kicked his heels for a moment. At the front of the train, the whistle blew, long and loud.

They were off.

Mechanically, he took off his coat and hat and laid them on the pegs. He considered reaching up to the rack, taking down his valise, retreiving his manuscript, and getting some work done. Then he flopped down onto the bed. In three or four days, he’d be back in London, and then he could work to his heart’s content.

Having thus resolved to spend the remainder of his vacation in as unproductive a manner as possible, Jughead Jones stretched out on his cot and fell asleep fully clothed.

When he woke, moonlight was streaming through the open blinds, bathing the room in a pale, fragile, silver-blue light. Besides the steady huffing of the train, all was still. His watch, when he picked it up from the diminutive bedside table, read 2:15, but he felt rested and invigorated from his short nap. Perhaps the biting, clear winter air was beginning to do him good after all. He stretched his limbs vigorously, contemplated trying to get more sleep, and decided firmly against it.

Softly, Jughead unbolted his door, poking his head into the hallway. The corridor was empty, as far as he could see: all the other Istanbul-Paris passengers must have been asleep. He put an experimental toe over the threshold. When the conductor failed to materialize and reprimand him for breaking yet another Regulation, he stepped out all the way and set off down the hall.

If he were honest with himself, then he would have admitted that he didn’t know what the hell he was doing at the moment. As it was, he was satisfying his conscience with the vague understanding that he wanted a walk, but didn’t want to worry about meeting any of his fellow-passengers.

The hall was dark and windowless, and so he practically walked into the connecting door before he noticed it was there. The door to the Istanbul-Calais coach was supposed to be locked, anyway. Or so he assumed. He didn’t quite know, but locked doors seemed to accord with the general character of Wagon-Lit Regulations.

At the end of the corridor, someone gasped sharply. Jughead blinked against the darkness, to no effect.

Footsteps advanced down the hall towards him. If Jughead had been as preternaturally gifted in the arts of detection as Sir Rufus, he would have been able to divine the height, weight, sex, current mood, and fashion sense of the Unknown from the sound of their shoe. As it was, he merely flattened his back against the wall and tried to silence his breathing. It wasn’t, perhaps, the most sensible thing to do, but he had mostly given up on being sensible for the moment.

The footsteps came to a stop beside Jughead, who slid his eyes closed. The Unknown--probably a woman, judging by the faint waft of perfume sliding past him--gave a little, surprised-sounding...was that a sob? Whatever it was, she silenced it with a hand over her mouth. Her other hand reached out and gripped suddenly at his arm, as if she was trying to steady herself.

“Do you remember me?” Her voice was soft and steady, with a shaky upward quiver on the last syllable.

His eyes snapped open, his heart gave a panicked shudder in his chest, the air around his ears throbbed and rang, his knees turned weak and useless, the world around him tilted dangerously--and then her eyes swam dimly into his field of view, and a soft, clear sense of rightness stole gently over him. He fumbled for his voice, as one caught under a spell might.

She drew back, her eyes wide and panicked. “I--I’m so sorry to presume--it’s just that you look like someone--someone I...knew, a long time ago.”

The word “loved” went unsaid. They both understood that “knew” was a mere euphemism.

He found his voice, although it was hoarser than he’d last left it. “Betts.”

Her entire frame stiffened up, all at once, as though someone had walked over her grave, or as if a thrill had run down her spine. Her head shook, as if she was trying to deny his very existence to herself. Then, slowly but surely, a radiant smile drifted across her face and came to rest there, glowing with a quiet, confident light. “Juggie.” It wasn’t spoken like a question, but it definitely was one.

“The same,” he confirmed, daring a brazen grin. “I--it’s been a while.” Did you miss me? he wanted to add, but didn’t.

“I read your book,” Betty murmured, ducking her head to hide the growing pink flush across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. “Bestseller, right?” With a determined set to her jaw, she continued lightly, “What happened to coming back home once you made it big?”

He shrugged callously. “Sequels. Promotional tours. I’m trying to write something that’s actually worth reading. Besides, I thought you’d have gotten out of Riverdale by now, so there wasn’t much there for me.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Betty’s jaw clenched painfully, and her eyes flickered shut for a moment before fixing on the ground. “I did leave,” she murmured, her voice like blunt steel. “I came back, though.” Then she changed course with an abrupt smile. “Anyway, what brought you to Istanbul? That’s got to be interesting.”

 _What’s wrong?_ he wanted to ask. _What happened while I was gone?_ But he knew Betty: if she wanted him to know, she’d have told him already. “Holiday, actually. Apparently, I’m losing my good constitution or some such, and a change of air is supposed to help. You?”

“Polly got married,” Betty explained briefly. Her eyes scanned him up and down more rigorously, as if searching for signs of ill health. “Her husband’s been stationed in Istanbul for a while, and he wrote that he wanted her to join him. So Mother and I saw her there, and now we’re coming home.”

“What do you do now?” he asked, forcing his eyes to remain fixed on hers instead of dipping lower. Her cloche hat had been remade three times over. Well, the market crash would have hit Riverdale hard, of course, but the Coopers had always been reasonably well-off. Most likely, they had weathered the storm, but their near miss had persuaded Alice Cooper into a maniacal bout of economizing.

“I’m a governess,” Betty replied, biting at her lip. “It’s not perfect, but if only one of us is successful, I’m glad it’s you, Juggie.”

“Do you like the kids?” he began, reaching out for her hand. She let him take it: it was smaller than he remembered, but her fingers were strong and reassuring as she squeezed his hand.

“They’re brats,” Betty declared, but a fond smile played across her face, dancing like a candle flame and giving the lie to her words.

“Will I see more of you? You could stay a few days in London, maybe,” he suggested, barely daring to hope.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “The steamer tickets don’t offer changes.” Her hand pressed his again, harder than before. “I should go. I’m sharing a compartment with my mother, and she won’t want me gone when she wakes up.”

Her pulse, underneath his thumb, was ragged. “But can we spend time together on the trip? I can come to see you in the States.”

A hopeful light flared up in her eyes, then died all at once. “Juggie, I don’t know yet. It was nice to see you tonight, though. Maybe you can lunch with us tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he blurted, instantly cursing his lack of self-possession. “Yes, I think I can make that work. Twelve?”

Betty’s lips pursed into a thin line. “One, I think. She lunches late.”

“One,” he agreed. Impulsively, he pressed her hand to his lips. “Milady,” he drawled, passing the gesture off as mere playacting.

Betty’s smile, ten years ago, would have been quick and bright, like the juicy tang of a ripe strawberry. Now, for a thick, horrible moment, she froze, staring at their interlocking hands.

Her smile, when it came, was tinged with melancholy. He had hurt her, somehow. “Goodnight, Juggie,” she breathed. Jughead didn't look back as he slipped through the connecting door.

“Passenger Number Three!” the conductor hissed from beside him the instant he was through. “What, precisely, do you think you are doing?” As Jughead stalked down the hall, the conductor followed, listing off Regulations.

He slammed the door to his compartment with vicious force. “Passenger Number Three!” the conductor continued, hammering on the door. “Are you aware that you’ve broken at least seven Safety Regulations within the past half hour, in addition to the aforementioned Conduct Regulations? What do you have to say for yourself, sir? Hmmm?”

Jughead kicked off his shoes, burrowed under the blankets, and jammed the pillow down over his ears until the conductor’s voice blurred into the mechanical groaning of the train.


	2. The Evidence of the Governess

****

Betty Cooper woke up at seven o’clock in the morning, just as the first rays of sun seeped through the blinds of the compartment she shared with her mother. She splashed cold water on her face to hide the dark circles under her eyes, practiced her smile in the small mirror over the sink, and choked her hair into a tight updo.

“It’s going to be a great day,” she informed her reflection. Then she turned around and checked to make sure that the hook at the top of her dress was hooked.

Already, the conductor was making his way down the corridor, ringing the meal bell.

“I’m going to have breakfast,” she called through the wall. “Do you want anything?”

Alice Cooper sniffed as she pulled curl papers out of her hair. “Hardly. Maybe some fruit. Be careful with the toast, Betty. They say these foreign brands have twice the fat content.”

Something in the back of Betty’s mind took careful notes: _bring back an apple, not too much toast_. Something in the middle of her mind reminded her, _you should tell her about running into Jughead._ The foreground focused on nodding, smiling, and getting the hell out. “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do,” Alice insisted, getting up from the bed to use the mirror. With a final, labored smile, Betty slipped out into the corridor.

The restaurant compartment was nearly full. “Table for one,” she instructed the maître-d at the door.

Once seated, she ordered a hard-boiled egg and some coffee, along with an apple for her mother. Surreptitiously, she craned her neck to locate Jughead.

The table next to her was occupied by four individuals: a man and three women, two of whom were clearly mother and daughter. The man (in his late forties, good-looking, and well-dressed) was dictating something to the third woman, who was a harried-looking forty, with large glasses and brown hair pulled tight at the back of her neck.

“When we get into Calais, wire my agents to see about snatching that up, Grundy. That price is going to heat up, I guarantee. Call all my old partners and send them a tip for something else, too. Maybe that new car company or something. Got to get them barking up the wrong tree.”

“Yes, Mr. Lodge,” the secretary replied dutifully.

The daughter was busy regaling her mother with a story. “...so of _course_ I said we would stay friends, I mean, he looked so sad! I really do hate breaking hearts, but I haven’t a choice. There really is no place for anyone in _my_ heart except Archiekins, anyhow. Speaking of, do you remember that dress I had made for our night at the opera last month? I swear, I saw Nancy wearing the exact same to the Muggs party, and she didn’t look embarrassed, either!”

The mother was only vaguely listening. Her eyes were glazed over, and she nodded her head and inserted an occasional “Yes, dear.”

Betty followed the gazes of both mother and daughter to a neighboring table, occupied by two men. The younger, a boyish and mildly unintelligent-looking redhead, was tucking into scrambled eggs and bacon with admirable vigor. The elder, possibly his father, was methodically dismantling a cold slice of veal, while simultaneously trying to avoid meeting the eyes of the mother at the other table. Beyond periodic noises of appreciation for their food, the two men were silent.

In the far corner of the room, a father and daughter were occupying themselves by bossing the waitstaff around. “Minions,” the daughter instructed, “I’m on a diet. Do you understand what that is? Actually, wait, don’t answer that.” She tossed her coppery hair in exaggerated impatience.

“I want my eggs boiled for six minutes and forty seconds exactly,” the father insisted.

At the next table, two girls roughly Betty’s age were halfway through their fifth and seventh cups of black coffee. “Look, you’ve got to give me _some_ feedback, Mel,” the one facing Betty complained. “Do you like the chorus or not? I worked all night trying to get the rhymes to line up. Where’s Josie, do you know? I want to play it for her.”

The other girl shrugged her shoulders silently and drained her coffee in a single gulp.

The food came, but Jughead failed to materialize. It wasn’t like him to miss breakfast, but maybe he’d slept in. (Quite possibly, he’d changed since he left Riverdale, but she preferred to imagine him sleeping in. Jughead the lazy glutton was a familiar Jughead indeed.) Betty gave up waiting, paid for her food, pocketed the apple, and headed out of the restaurant car.

“You’ve got to reconsider.” The voice was a man’s, low and pained, and it was coming from beyond the connecting door to the Calais coach.

“I’m not going to, Reggie, so stop asking!” a woman hissed angrily. “I told you, we’ll talk again when it’s all over. Now leave me alone!”

“You barely know him! Why are you doing this?” Reggie returned. Betty risked a glance through the peephole in the connecting door. He was the closest to her, but she could just barely make out the outline of a woman behind him. He was good-looking in an easygoing sort of way, but his jaw was set stonily, and he was pointedly staring out the window.

“You’re not going to change my mind,” the woman insisted.

“What about...what I wrote you about?” Reggie asked, his voice unsteady.

The woman turned to face him; her steely eyes softened a fraction. “Maybe, once this is behind us.”

“And that’s supposed to be enough?” he demanded. Betty opened the door as soundlessly as possible, so as not to disturb them. She _really_ shouldn’t have eavesdropped.

Unfortunately for her conscience, the door was squeaky. The couple started, and Reggie jumped away from the woman as if the very air she breathed was toxic. “I don’t want to wait until you finish this tour to get married, Miss McCoy,” he declared gallantly, glaring daggers at Betty out of the corner of his eye.

Betty beat a hasty retreat back to her compartment. Somehow, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that they hadn’t been talking about a concert tour.

The trouble with travel by train was that, besides meals and platform stops, there really wasn’t much to do. Betty read the newspaper, walked up and down the corridor, looked out the window, started _Jane Eyre_ for the fifth time on this trip alone, finished _Jane Eyre_ , mentally imagined a universe in which _Jane Eyre_ had a more satisfying ending, and jerked back to the present with a start when her mother called her name.

“Betty, I think we’ve been trapped in here long enough,” Alice decided. “Do you want some lunch?”

Predictably, it was one o’clock precisely. “I think so,” she agreed, sliding off the chair.

They set off down the corridor, past the rows of closed doors, through the adjoining door, and--Betty’s mental cataloging broke off as something very large slammed into her, knocking her back a step. With typical Betty Cooper luck, she tripped on the heel of her shoe and crashed dramatically into the ground.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Jughead’s voice from above her, and damn him, he was _enjoying_ this. “Here, let me help you up,” he offered, extending an arm down. She took it and shot him a dirty look. He winked back and mouthed, “ _Play along!_ ” Then he pulled her up in a single fluid motion and stepped back as if overcome by shock. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t Betty Cooper!” he declaimed dramatically.

“Juggie?” she responded, fighting to resist the urge to roll her eyes at him. “Jughead Jones?”

Alice, surprisingly, fell for it. “Jughead. You’ve grown,” she began, and stopped for lack of something else to say.

“Mrs. C. Always a pleasure,” Jughead said, with his most charming smile. “I haven’t seen either of you in years. You’re both having lunch with me, and I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ll tell you all about my new book,” he added, as if this might sweeten the deal.

“We hear you’re a bestseller now,” Alice observed, and Betty mentally cringed. Her mother was about as subtle as a minor character in an Austen novel. _Please don’t tell him. Please, Mom_.

“Well, what can I say? People like trash,” Jughead replied, his tone uncharacteristically bitter.

“Someone’s gotten humble,” Betty teased, making a mental note to ask him about his novels later.

The restaurant car was significantly emptier than it had been at breakfast: probably most of the passengers had already lunched. In the far corner, the dark-haired girl was eating with the redheaded boy. They practically radiated adoration at each other, and every so often, they scooted their chairs a fraction closer together. Alice sniffed at the breach of propriety and made sure to select a seat facing away from the display.

The girl from the corridor was at a table with the coffee-drinkers. In between bites of sandwich, they were humming something vaguely catchy.

“So about how long does it take you to write a novel, Jughead?” Alice inquired. Her gaze dipped down to his left hand, which was flat on the table.

Betty cringed in embarrassment. “About six months, if everything goes well,” he returned smoothly, bringing his hand down to his lap. He wasn’t wearing a ring, and Betty watched her mother’s eyes gleam at the resulting deduction. “Right now, I’m having a spot of writer’s block.”

That didn’t sound like Jughead at all. “Really? Since when have you ever had trouble finding something to say?” Betty joked.

Some of the painful tension at the table dissipated, as if the sun had suddenly broken through a patch of clouds. “Since I stopped getting to argue with you,” Jughead said, grinning innocently at her. The corners of his mouth twitched up in silent laughter. “I miss the stimulation of consistently out-reasoning you.”

At the coffee-drinking table, the girl from the corridor slammed her hand down on the table. “Val, a slant rhyme is not a rhyme. It’s not clever, or funny, it’s lazy. Can someone tell me what portion of this song is _not_ an overused cliche?”

In the corner, the young couple stood up from their seats and started towards the door of the dining car.

“It’s a throwback, Josie,” the songwriter declared hotly. “It’s an ironic reflection on outdated societal norms.”

“I don’t hear irony, I hear nostalgia,” Josie shot back. “Waiting for a white knight to come save you, Val? Because if so, I’m not sure your voice is the right fit for this band.”

“So are you coming back to the States?” Alice inquired.

Jughead’s jaw firmed. “Unfortunately, not yet. My agent needs me in London. But as soon as I can get away, I’m thinking I’ll head over. You two are going back, then?”

“Yes. We really shouldn’t leave the States at the moment, but Polly’s husband wanted her in Istanbul with him. We couldn't let her make the journey alone, especially in her delicate condition,” Alice explained.

Jughead’s face screwed up for a moment, as though he was trying to divine the specific meaning of the phrase, “delicate condition” in this particular context. Then his brows cleared. “Of course. Naturally.”

“Ahem,” said a female voice loudly. Betty turned around and found herself face-to-face with the dark-haired girl from the corner. “Veronica Lodge,” she gushed with a glowing smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the only person on this train I haven’t met yet. Actually, I don’t think I’ve met any of you, but you happen to be female and my age, so forgive me for being intrigued. You are?”

“Betty Cooper,” Betty managed, overwhelmed by the avalanche of friendliness.

“Let’s sit down, Archiekins. Betty, this is Archie Andrews, my fiancé,” Veronica explained offhandedly, pulling a chair from an empty table and inserting herself deftly across from Betty.

“Um, this is my mother, Alice Cooper, and my friend Jughead Jones,” Betty explained, trying her hardest not to react to the fact that Jughead had just moved his chair closer to her in order to accommodate the new arrivals.

Alice scrutinized Archie and Veronica closely. Then she stood up, her mouth drawn tightly into a thin line. “Lovely to make your acquaintance. Unfortunately, I was just about to leave. I hope you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept away, her chin held high.

Archie and Jughead glanced each other over briefly. Then Archie extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, man,” he said.

In the meantime, Veronica’s mouth had fallen open slightly. She blinked once, then blinked again. “No. I’m definitely imagining things.”

Archie’s eyebrows drew together slightly. He must have been accustomed to his fiancée’s overreactions, though, because he ignored her and started tapping his fingers on the table. “Imagining what?” Betty asked.

“You’re saying this is _the_ Jughead Jones. Author of the Sir Rufus mysteries?” Her hand pressed up against her chest. “I might possibly be your biggest fan ever. I’ve practically _devoured_ everything you’ve written.” She paused, a shadow crossing her. “Until your last one, that is. I mean, what do you even have to _say_ for yourself?” Betty tried to recall any particularly controversial moments in Jughead’s last novel, but came up blank. Maybe she’d wanted someone else to be the killer?

Jughead had drawn back from her as far as was possible within the bounds of politeness, and was eyeing her as though she was liable to explode at any moment into a shower of overblown compliments. “Say for myself about what?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“You have got to be kidding me. You don’t even know?” Veronica’s tone on the final word veered dangerously towards a screech. Then she visibly calmed herself. “Sorry,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I get worked up about these things, don’t I, Archiekins?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Archie, and went back to drumming his fingers on the tabletop.

“You,” Veronica declared, pointing an accusing finger at Jughead, “ _broke my heart_. You made me sob for _hours_ on end, and you don’t even _care_!”

“I’m sorry…” Jughead began with an air of confusion, but she cut him off imperiously.

“Bella and Rufus are _meant_ to be together. She saved his life when the assassin tried to kill him!” Veronica exclaimed passionately. “And then you had him _leave_ before she could thank him for finding the proof of her brother’s innocence!”

Jughead shifted uncomfortably. “Not all stories have happy endings, Miss Lodge. Sir Rufus wanted her to keep her independence. If she wants to see him, she knows where to find him.” He didn’t sound bitter anymore, Betty thought: just world-weary, as if he’d been hopeful once but had been disappointed. A leaden layer of guilt settled firmly in her stomach.

“She’s coming back in the next book, though, right?” Veronica queried urgently. Betty didn’t dare look up from her soup for fear of meeting his eyes.

“You’ll have to wait and see,” said Jughead.

Veronica took an indignant breath, preparing to excoriate him once more, when a nasal voice interrupted, “Passenger Number Three.”

Jughead looked up, as though he was accustomed to answering to this title. “I haven’t been breaking Regulations,” he deadpanned. The roguish gleam in his eyes ruined the effect.

“You originally wanted a first-class berth in the Calais coach, correct?” the conductor inquired.

Jughead’s eyebrows knitted together. “I did. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

The conductor sniffed and drew himself up to his full height with stiff, military posture. It failed to make him even the least bit more imposing. Next to Betty, Veronica ineffectively stifled a giggle in her handkerchief. “A passenger has failed to arrive,” the conductor announced. “A Mr. Moose Mason. Do you wish your things placed in his berth?”

“Yes, please,” Jughead agreed.

“What sort of name is _Moose_ , anyway?” Veronica whispered across the table, none too softly. Archie shot her a quizzical glance.

“I hope this will be an effective deterrent towards the breaking of further regulations,” the conductor observed thinly. Then he nodded abruptly at the table and marched off.

“I’d better go make sure nobody accidentally rips my manuscripts,” Jughead excused himself. A little twinge of disappointment tore through Betty’s chest before she could suppress it. “Veronica, Archie, nice to meet you both. Betty, maybe we can talk later?”

“Sure,” she agreed, her throat dry and her voice hollow. Their eyes met, and he swallowed thickly, then offered her a wan smile. Maybe the doctors were right and he was sick. It would be just like Jughead to work himself into the ground without any regard for his own well-being. She smiled back, as sunnily as she could manage.

His hand twitched by his side; then he turned around and walked off. At the doorway, he stopped and turned around, as if he’d forgotten something. “By the way, Veronica? Sir Rufus is an idiot. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

“Writers are odd, aren’t they?” said Veronica, staring after him. “And they always seem to hate their own creations, as a rule. You know, I met Ariadne Oliver the other day, and--anyway, never mind,” she finished, noticing that she had lost the interest of her audience.

“No, sorry, go on,” Betty offered, recollecting her manners just in time.

Veronica grinned mischievously. “Never mind. It was nice to meet you, Betty. Why don’t you have dinner with Archiekins and I tonight?”

Betty stalled. “I’d love that, but I have to eat with my mother, and--”

“--she thinks we’re trash,” Veronica summarized. “Never mind. I have a feeling we’re destined to be friends anyway. Breakfast, then, at eight.”

“Sounds good,” Betty agreed.

“Alright, then,” said Veronica, standing up from the table fluidly. “I’ll see you then, Bella--I mean, _Betty_.”

With an unapologetic grin, she beckoned to Archie and was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veronica knows what's up, huh? Let me know who you think is getting murdered and who strikes you as suspicious in the comments!! SO glad to be back writing!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are AMAZING and make me SO HAPPY!!!!!! Love this fandom, btw, in case I don't say that enough!


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